


From Gallifrey, With Love

by ChromaticDreams



Series: Doctor Who One-Shots [3]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Episode: 2013 Xmas The Time of the Doctor, Gen, Missing Scene, Regeneration, kinda- more of an expanding of a scene from the doctor's pov, specifically eleven's clocktower regeneration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-14 08:31:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16489196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChromaticDreams/pseuds/ChromaticDreams
Summary: His double heart rate increased as that hauntingly familiar golden glow spread through his varicose veins, excess energy wafting like dust off his skin, the telltale sign of impending regeneration. But this was impossible, absolutely impossible. He was dead, he saw his grave, he was—The Doctor genuinely didn't expect to leave Trenzalore alive, that long night. Doctor's POV + missing scene.





	From Gallifrey, With Love

**Author's Note:**

> It's hard to find any fics that go into much detail about regeneration and that's a shame really, because I love weird alien biology stuff like that. So I wrote one myself.

Far above the clock tower, the Dalek flagship hung in the lower atmosphere like a hunter crouching in the brush, waiting for its prey to die.

“Sorry I’m a bit slow,” the Doctor said as he hobbled up the last of the stairs, clinging to the railing like a lifeline. His right knee protested, having not exerted this much effort in a very long while. “I may not be at my best right now.”

Drones identical to those he remembered from the Time War whizzed around the tower in an endless threatening display of might. They fired upon the small town as he watched, powerless to stop them, decimating homes and shops and gardens in a blaze of ash and smoke. Screams cut through the night. They sliced directly into his weakening hearts, already beating slower with every day. His body was shutting down, and he genuinely didn’t know if it was due to age or guilt. He leaned into his cane as he lowered himself onto the chair he’d placed up here years back.

“You are dying, Doctor!” one of the Daleks broadcasting from the flagship proclaimed, as if he didn’t intimately know that fact already.

He grimaced as a dull spike of pain radiated up his thigh from his other knee, from where the rest of his leg had been severed centuries earlier. “Yes, I’m dying. You’ve been trying to kill me for centuries, and here I am,” he declared, voice dripping in cynicism, “dying of old age. If you want something done, do it yourself.”

“You will die, and the Time Lords will never return.”

A younger man might have rolled his eyes at this. Daleks, they never ceased to state the obvious, now did they? He almost felt disappointed that they hadn’t killed him yet. “You still can’t work up the courage to shoot me, can you?” he mumbled, growing louder with every word. “You’re still worried I’ve got something up my sleeve!”

For once, his arch enemies restrained themselves to silence, taunting him by cutting circles around the tower. He huffed, dropping his head in failure.

“Well, you knock yourselves out, boys. I’ve got nothing this time.”

The Doctor sniffled, despite himself, and prepared for the end. Below, children were crying. Wailing. The sound of gunfire split through his ears, a gift from the last remnants of the resistance. Explosions rang in response as the Daleks ruthlessly attacked the populace. He aimed to die, the last time he was caught in a war with an impossible end. Perhaps in some twisted, poetic way, he’d finally gotten what he wanted. At least this time around he wouldn’t die committing double genocide.

He thought of Clara, standing somewhere below. Probably outside, because she was never one to do as he told. He sighed heavily. At least this time, if he had to die, he wouldn’t die alone.

All fell to silence, beyond the Daleks’ fury. The universe beyond their stars, holding her breath. And then… a roaring clamor as loud as thunder split the skies of Christmas in two. His hearts seized as he whirled around to look, to seek out the source of this disruption.

_Impossible..._

His eyes blew wide. Far above this petty skirmish, the crack in time opened its gaping maw. He squinted in confusion, knowing this was the Time Lords’ doing, but not knowing why. Why would they risk their safety now by revealing themselves after over 900 years of trying to quietly wait this threat out? Stupid, _stupid!_ He didn’t spend all his lives working to save Gallifrey for them to all but commit suicide!

Admittedly his sight was far from adequate these days, but he could swear he saw something emerging from between the milky white light of the crack, something tangible. Something… gold and fine as silk, and gliding straight towards him. He didn’t dare move. His joints locked in place, he watched it advance with a sort of mesmerizing wonder, watched with eyes nearly crossed as it passed between his lips. It settled within him much like the warmth of a satisfying supper, much like— oh. _Oh._ The Doctor knew then in his hearts exactly what this offering was, even if he still couldn’t explain to himself _why_.

He splayed out his hands in front of him. His double heart rate increased as that hauntingly familiar golden glow spread through his varicose veins, excess energy wafting like dust off his skin, the telltale sign of impending regeneration. But this was impossible, absolutely impossible. He was _dead_ , he saw his grave, he was—

“You will die now, Doctor. This is the end of you!” the Daleks above taunted.

—he wasn’t going to die today. The realization hit him with a bit more numbed shock than he anticipated, nearly knocking the breath right out of him. When had he grown so complacent in his supposed destiny that he’d forgotten how to hope? He slowly rotated his wrist in front of his face, feeling the Time Lords’ miraculous gift resurrecting him moment by moment.

“The rules of regeneration are known. You have expended all your lives!”

It was making him more than a little giddy, coursing through his tired body like a maelstrom of lifeblood. Suddenly he could stand without pain radiating in his joints, without his remaining leg weakening under strain of supporting his full body weight. He could think without his mind growing cloudy and distant, lost amongst centuries of stagnant memory.

“Sorry, what did you say?” he said, rising to his feet once more. “Did you mention the rules? Now, listen. Bit of advice! Tell me the truth if you think you know it, lay down the law if you’re feeling brave, but! Daleks never,” he punctuated his words with a tap of his cane, “ _ever_ tell me the rules!”

He lifted his closed fist, still grasping the cane, back to the sky, allowing his enemy to see the impossible golden energy brimming under his skin. Below, the clock struck twelve, its bell tolling the first chimes of midnight.

The hoard of insolent metal drones seemed to swell in panic, picking up speed as they buzzed about the town. “Emergency! Emergency! The Doctor is regenerating, the Doctor is regenerating!”

“Oh, look at this! Regeneration number thirteen,” he exclaimed, swinging his cane as he gaily traipsed atop the platform. “We’re breaking some serious science here, boys! I tell you what, it’s gonna be a _whopper,_ ho ho!”

“Exterminate, exterminate the Doctor!”

He paused for breath, for a moment drinking in the scene, drinking in his surroundings. The Dalek force reduced to pleading desperation, pathetic creatures, and not even one brave enough to face one ancient, solitary Time Lord. His body, surging with a fresh-from-Gallifrey cocktail of power he hadn’t felt washing over him in a thousand some odd years. These were impossible circumstances, but the first _impossible_ he’d played company to for over half a lifetime.

“You think you can stop me now, Daleks? If you want my life,” he bellowed, and threw his arms outwards, letting his cane drop from old, weathered hands, hands that glistened mischievously with the light of renewal. “Ha, ha! Come! And! _Get it!”_

He sucked one final breath between his chapped lips. Digging his feet— both flesh and prosthetic— into the dense concrete of the clock tower’s platform, he willed the dam to burst. This time, however, he wouldn’t allow the explosive mixture of hormones and artron energy running rampant through his veins to progress on automatic, oh, no, no, no. The Daleks were still advancing, faced with the prospect of a regenerating Time Lord in the middle of their battlefield, which— so shoot him, it couldn’t be helped!— one should never do in any circumstances if they valued their continued existence. His one advantage? _They_ still expected a standard regeneration. Instead, he was about to do something far, far worse. He clenched his fists in solid determination.

The Doctor swung his right arm in a fast, wide arc as if fancying himself an air guitarist, mentally willing the energy pooling under his skin to surge towards his extremities. He partially let go, shooting his fingers outwards and allowing the golden light to surge outwards in a dense, fiery fury. His teeth clenched together so hard they ached as he desperately attempted to channel this wayward energy through the ashy sky, directly at an advancing Dalek drone. It didn’t take more than a split second for the strike to hit, instantly reducing the rust-gold drone to burning shrapnel plummeting towards the shingles below. Emboldened laugher bubbled up within his chest despite everything else, despite the mortal danger of this whole scenario.

He’d seen other Time Lords carry out this sort of weaponized regeneration before, of course. On the front lines of the Time War, in the heat of battle, there was often no alternative but to regenerate out in the open, under fire. In such a scenario, one could theoretically push their regeneration to become dangerously explosive, and in doing so neutralize advancing enemies while healing oneself. It was a risk, though, oh golly was it a risk. A very grave one. He himself had never needed to take it, always lucky enough to drag himself to the TARDIS or another safe place before finally succumbing to death. Stubborn, stubborn man he was. But even a thousand years past the War, memories of young Time Lords regenerating in the open only to be gunned down dead by Dalek fire in the middle of it still haunted him. Only luck would keep him from facing the same fate. Well, luck and the fact that this was no ordinary regeneration in the first place.

Hearing the whiny approach of another small Dalek craft to his left, he threw his other arm to the wind, using his fingertips as a sight as he willed the energy buzzing with an almost electric tang in his veins to burst forth. It flowed off of him in violent waves, dense droplets of gold spilling from his hands almost like liquid. Another direct hit. His eye tracked the descent of the burning Dalek shell to the square of the war ravaged town below. Time seemed to creep at a maudlin pace as he drank in the scene one last time. One last time, with these old eyes. The townsfolk were screaming in panic, advancing to any shelter they could find amidst the chaos. And amongst the faces, dozens upon dozens of faces he knew he’d seen every day for decades but had failed to remember in his advanced age, there was one he knew he could never forget. One woman who would always keep a tight hold on his hearts, for all the sacrifices she’d sewn through the threads of his time stream. Her hair pooled around her face in smooth ribbons as she yelled for the others to take shelter. His focus jittered at the sight of her, regeneration almost tussling conscious control from him.

_Clara._

He— his breath hitched, and his nerves tingled as he wrestled to retain restraint— he couldn’t, no, no, no, not yet. He had to give her a few more seconds. A few more seconds to lead the rest of the children inside, before he let go completely. Wise, clever Clara, of course she’d understand what he was about to do. Daleks whizzed in circles in an endless gamble, none daring to cross too close in the wake of the power threatening them should they edge just a few meters more towards the clock tower. Once more, giddiness over the sheer impossibility of this scenario hit him with a vengeance, teasing his mouth into a devilish grin. He laughed without abandon, arms spread wide in the fires of renewal.

Echoing far above the roar of regeneration and the chaos of the Dalek hoard he head the front door of the church slam shut. Time enough to let go.

“Love from Gallifrey, boys!” the Doctor proclaimed at his lifelong foes, voice steeped in contempt. He swung his arms and hands inwards, folding into himself, and then gave up his last shred of conscious control.

From there, caught in the throes of biological process, his memory of what happened was a bit sketchy. He recalled surrendering himself to regeneration, feeling every cell in his body flooded with the explosive mix of hormones and artron energy all at once. A peculiar tingle ran from his left knee down, as he regrew a limb he’d learned to live without for centuries now. Somewhere along the line, he must have gnashed his teeth together.

The burning intensified. The Doctor could feel new hair follicles growing from atop his scalp, muscles tightening and regaining strength. And then, as unexpectedly quick as this limit breaking regeneration had emerged from the crack, the energy bathing him in an ethereal glow of gold and orange grew thin and dissipated into the night. He stumbled backwards, nearly blacking out from the repressed shock of all that had just happened.

When he finally came back to himself, to the world at large, he was met by smoke, and rubble, and… confusion. His ears rang, a high pitched whine that threatened to snap the last threads of cognitive thought currently cartwheeling through his mind in free fall. But no matter to that, no matter to the state of his own physical condition— _somehow_ he’d blown the entire roof of the bell tower to smithereens with the sheer destructive force of his regeneration! A small part of him— the part not currently fussing over the shrapnel from the Dalek craft that was still plummeting from the sky, impaling roofs and making a disastrous mess of the streets— silently thanked the stars that he hadn’t regenerated inside the TARDIS for once. She’d likely never forgive him.

Speaking of the TARDIS…

His hearts seized as he nervously eyed the wreckage of the buildings around him and desperately tried not to imagine his old girl in the same state. Tough as she is, even she wasn’t fully immune to shocks as rife as that. Far past thinking first and acting later at this point in his life, he climbed over what was left of the stone balcony and lowered himself to the roof. He needed to check on his ship, to ensure she was all right. He slid down the shingles, as delicately as one could. When he reached the lowest point of the eave, he ground his heels to slow himself down, and then slung himself over the edge, dangling only a measly few meters in the air.

He let out a shallow huff as he dropped to the ground, distantly acknowledging with a jolt of surprise that the timbre of his voice was the same, that his hands were smooth but his body was the same— centuries younger, but _the same._  Absolutely identical. What was up with that, hmm? Why hadn’t he changed? He carded his fingers through thick locks of hair, no longer scarce and paper thin. Was it because this was the start of a brand new cycle? Whole new set of regenerations, a whole new set of silly Doctors? Set… _A reset._ Brow creasing, he brought his hands in front his face, flexing his digits as gold dusted his skin. He swallowed hard, trying his best not to feel a rush of disappointment over this revelation. So that’s what it was, what all this must be. Not a get out of jail free card. Not a bargain. A good old fashioned factory reset.

The Doctor skirted to a stop in front of his TARDIS, reaching out with a shaky hand. He inhaled, deep. Pressed his palm to the blue stained wood. She thrummed under his touch, reassuring him. Not damaged. A tough girl, see, exactly like he said. Well, like he thought. But then, he’s always getting those two mixed up.

“How ‘bout it?” he whispered, gently stroking her outer shell, affectionately, reverently. “Time for our last hurrah, eh?”

He reached for the cord strung around his neck and pulled it free, slotting its key into his ship’s lock. The door swung open. Her engines hummed in a baleful sigh as he crossed the threshold, recognizing the presence of artron energy within his system. He felt her presence brush against his mind. A delicate whisper. What might she say if she could talk, he wondered? They’d talked once before, hadn’t they? Long time ago...

Both feet inside the TARDIS. A gasp for breath, as if awakening from an impossible dream. Over nine hundred years, taking the slow path on the same demure planet, growing old, growing frail. God, how he’d missed this— the promise of tomorrow, a doorway to all of time and space. He glanced back once, only once, at the ruin he’d brought to the town called Christmas. He never looked back. _Almost_ never. The Doctor, weary warrior, let the image of this place burn itself into his mind so that he’d never forget it. Not ever. Not for a second. His parting burden was that he would always remember those days, each battle, the full weight of his struggle. The reason he did it, the reason he stayed for years and years and never gave in, not even if it killed him… the trusting smiles of the children he failed to save, the keening sobs of villagers who’d suffered losses far beyond what any of them deserved...

Because sometimes, on his _very_ good days…

Everyone lived their lives, and they were all happy. And after what he’d done today, they’d be able to live those silly little lives for as long as they pleased.

His fingers trailed across the inner door frame, twitching to slam shut the doors and whisk himself into the greater cosmos. A soft hum from his old girl reminded him of why he had to wait, just this once.

“Clara,” he breathed, peering at the church the townsfolk hadn’t dared emerge from yet. She’d be the first to dash into the square, to search for him. His impossible girl, still looking out for him centuries later. “My Clara…”

Suddenly he gasped, clenching his teeth to ride off a wave of discomfort rippling through his body. His hands flared with gold, the shimmering energy wafting off his skin.

“One last bow,” he murmured, exhaustion catching up with him again. Didn’t have long. Not long, before—

He opened the cabinet housing the phone on the TARDIS’ exterior and dialed her mobile. If he could only hear her voice, one last time with these ears, then-

The Doctor pulled the corded phone through the doors, shut his eyes as it rang through, and waited.


End file.
